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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23823535">the inherent eroticism of buzzcuts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylphOfLight/pseuds/SylphOfLight'>SylphOfLight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Constipation, F/F, Fluff, Haircuts, Haircuts as a Metaphor for Love, Pining, i promise it's more fluff than emotional constipation, rose just refuses to make things easy for herself</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:27:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,657</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23823535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylphOfLight/pseuds/SylphOfLight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The clippers feel good in your hand. Like your knitting needles, they feel reliable and solid in your grip, like an extension of your arm, wielding them to inflict damage on whatever you choose. The familiar sound of Jade’s thumping footsteps echo down the corridor. </i>
  <br/>
  <i></i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>She spots you and moves towards you until she’s close enough to gently rub her knuckles against your newly shaved head. She seems fascinated by your hair, or lack thereof, and by definition, fascinated by you. Her fingers feel soft and feather-light against your scalp and you focus on her own hair, (thick and black and distinctive, tumbling over her shoulders in an endearing mess) in order to avoid looking directly at her, and her inquisitive expression and wide green eyes and beautiful face, currently so, so close to yours. It’s simultaneously intensely flattering and absolutely unbearable. You, mortifyingly, blush uncontrollably. </i><br/> </p><p>or, Rose shaves her head, pines after Jade, and overuses haircuts as a metaphor for her emotions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jade Harley/Rose Lalonde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the inherent eroticism of buzzcuts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“Hair is <i>everything</i>.” – Fleabag, S2 E5.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>You let The Mayor cut your hair. It’s been a while since you’ve had a decent trim and it’s getting longer than you’re comfortable with, so the timing works out. He’s recently taken to dabbling in a number of hobbies to broaden his horizons and improve his approachability amongst his citizens. One of which, you discover, is hairdressing. (Other activities include miniature golf, pottery, and yo-yoing. The list is varied, extensive, and impressive.) You commend his efforts. Although less completely besotted with your democratically elected leader than say, Dave or Karkat, you still wholly respect his authority and his determination of pursuing different crafts. So here you are, towel strewn across your shoulders, Dave in the background watching The Mayor with something akin the parental adoration, as said carapace goes hog-fucking-wild with the scissors behind you. The quote unquote salon that you are currently sat in is little more than a hodgepodge of miscellaneous objects that loosely fit the hairdressing aesthetic: assorted mirrors of various sizes and designs, pots of both real and artificial mini topiary trees, a whirring barber’s pole clunking gently in the corner.</p><p>The beginner’s hairdressing kit that The Mayor is currently using is yours, from way back when. Your mother most likely bought it for you for whatever reason and although at the time you probably viewed the gift with hostility, it’s coming in undeniably useful now. There’s no mirror in front of you to track The Mayor’s progress yourself so you simply wait in patient amusement as he cuts and fiddles, striking up idle conversation with Dave about the intricacies of the most recent local carapace and consort drama. It’s nothing worrying or too fraught thankfully, just the simple bickering that naturally tends to crop up in a time of peace. It’s easy to talk to him as always, teasing and prodding and full of banter. During a playful verbal jab at him, you notice that the defensiveness he often carried with him when he was younger has lifted a lot. He looks happy these days. Tone bright, gesticulating wildly as he makes some ridiculous extended metaphor of your extended metaphor, smiling as he talks. Good for him, you think. Hakuna matata.</p><p>The mayor then tosses his scissors down in triumph and barks out a cheery sounding noise, which you take to mean he’s finished his hard work. You thank him graciously while removing the towel from your shoulders and offer to help tidy up his makeshift salon or at the very least sweep your hair off the floor. He grunts and waves his hand at you, so you pack up the hairdressing kit in your bag, give a small upwards nod towards Dave, then take your leave. Running your fingers through your hair, it feels good. Soft. Did he use scented shampoo? What a hardworking leader Can Town has. What a well-rounded individual The Mayor is. You feel lucky to have been given the honour of helping him hone his hairdressing skills.</p><p>You pass a mirror and look at your reflection. It is the worst haircut you have ever seen.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later that day, you find yourself watching <em>Squiddles!</em> with Jade. Apart from a brief apprehensive pause before she greeted you, she has yet to acknowledge the new disaster that is your hair. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch with Jade on the floor in front on you, as your hands idly run through her hair. She gently leans her head into your touch whenever your fingers graze her scalp and you have to consciously prise your focus to the screen instead of on how warm and soft her hair feels. It’s surprisingly difficult. Bubbleblast cries on screen, as he wails about getting lost after a freakishly strong current knocks him off-course. You’ve seen this episode years ago, in an attempt at carrying out research on which squiddle to feature on the t-shirt you planned to buy before suitably defacing to suit your aesthetic. (You decided on the main character, in the end. You didn’t want people to think you had put too much thought into your <em>Squiddles!</em> merchandise choices after all, even if they were correct.)</p><p>You have something of a ritual going on with Jade. Every two weeks you’ll get together and have a slumber party of sorts, watching a handful of the thousands of <em>Squiddles!</em> episodes, work on some arts and crafts together, chatting and hanging out. You figure that after so much time isolated and lonely, she tries her best to hang out in person with others as often as possible and well, you don’t mind her company terribly either. The two of you hang out in group situations and with others as well of course, but this time is just for you two. She’s naturally bright and sunny in a way that seems astounding to you but as much as you can’t understand it, you still enjoy it. You really hope she’ll never outgrow this little tradition that the pair of you share, not that you’ll ever go through the mortifying process of voicing this worry out loud. You wouldn’t ever want to pressure her into spending time with you out of pity. In the episode, you recall Pebbly Beach comes to save her best friend in a few minutes but for now, Bubbleblast laments and languishes.</p><p>Something about Bubbleblast’s weepy monologue resonates with something deep, deep inside you. You stand up, retrieve the hair clippers from the hairdressing kit in your bag, walk calmly to the bathroom, and shave your entire head.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The clippers feel good in your hand. Like your knitting needles, they feel reliable and solid in your grip, like an extension of your arm, wielding them to inflict damage on whatever you choose. You’re sure The Mayor won’t take any offence at destroying his handiwork and honestly, you’re not completely sure if he actually understands how human hair works. Perhaps a conversation for another day. This time, you’ve got a mirror squarely in front of you to avoid nicking yourself or leaving any scruffy patches, head bent over the sink to avoid making a mess on the bathroom floor.</p><p>You ponder what in particular about Bubbleblast’s uncontrollable sobbing frenzy made you suddenly feel the irresistible urge to shave your head. You’re a sucker of a bit of psychoanalysis. The repressed feeling of helplessness from your youth being mirrored on screen and the urge to be in control of something, even your own hair length? The child voice actor’s unrestrained and raw performance reminding you that any remnants of childhood have now slipped through your fingers and that you should part with anything associated with that bygone era, such as frivolities like worrying about hairstyles? The episode director’s choice to incessantly and unnervingly focus on Bubbleblast’s little bald shiny head throughout the whole scene? Whatever the reason, you’re pleased with the outcome. Despite the vibrations from the hair clippers, your hands are stable and your heart is steady. As you tilt your head to get to the last few awkward spots, you can’t resist smiling at your reflection. You look good. You feel good.</p><p>The familiar sound of Jade’s thumping footsteps echo down the corridor as she bounds up the stairs to the bathroom. You forgot to close the door in your haste, so she’s mid-sentence as pokes her head around the door into view.</p><p>“– was wondering whether you’d had a terrible accident on the way to the toilet or were taking the world’s longest pee but I thought I’d check up on–!”</p><p>Her mouth forms a little o in surprise at your sudden new hairstyle.</p><p>“Rose!” she exclaims earnestly. “You look incredible! I mean, you could’ve told me you were gonna do this instead of leave me hanging but still! Incredible!”</p><p>You, embarrassingly, internally preen at all the attention from her but try your best to control your expression.</p><p>“Sorry,” you reply. It’s a weak apology. You’re bad at apologising.</p><p>She grins anyway and moves towards you until she’s close enough to gently rub her knuckles against your newly shaved head. She seems fascinated by your hair, or lack thereof, and by definition, fascinated by you. Her fingers feel soft and feather-light against your scalp and you focus on her own hair, (thick and black and distinctive, tumbling over her shoulders in an endearing mess) in order to avoid looking directly at her, and her inquisitive expression and wide green eyes and beautiful face, currently so, so close to yours. It’s simultaneously intensely flattering and absolutely unbearable. You, mortifyingly, blush uncontrollably.</p><p>“You look really good, Rose.”</p><p>You can hear the flirtatious implication laced with her words, you’re not an idiot. You want to reciprocate and just tell her how beautiful you find her, that would be what functionally straightforward people do but you’re just not wired like that. Even if you managed to muster up the effort to piece the words together in the right order, they would get caught in your throat like they always do when you try to be sincere, too big and awkward and vulnerable to spit out. You take the coward’s way out and stick to a sardonic tone that saves you from having to actually address her comment, or what she was implying. A treacherous thing, implication.</p><p>“Better than what I walked in with, right?” You say, smiling wryly.</p><p>She laughs.</p><p>“Much better.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A few weeks later, Jade and June are rummaging around in your closet, doing a spring clean of the whole place and claiming any old clothes that you are more than happy to disown. You’re sitting on your bed as they chatter, absentmindedly knitting and listening to them sort through everything. You’re making a scarf for June, a hideous orange and blue patterned atrocity that she insisted she wanted. There aren’t words to describe how proud you are of her for coming out to everyone and start transitioning, but her taste in clothes is still, frankly, appalling.</p><p>“This is so cute!” Jade exclaims, emerging from the depths of your closet to hold up a faded lavender plaid shirt from your youth.</p><p>God, you had such hideous fashion taste when you were younger.</p><p>“I haven’t worn that in years. Feel free to take it,” you say, shrugging.</p><p>June wrinkles her nose.</p><p>“I’ve got enough plaid shirts at home to last me a life time,” she says, characteristically leaving a pause between life and time. She turns back to the closet and carries on her search. “I don’t need another one.”</p><p>Jade turns and looks at both of you, frowning a little. As she dithers between the half-empty plastic sack deemed the chuck pile and the closet, she worries her lower lip, not particularly intensely but enough that your eyes zero in on her mouth and can’t seem to look away. She then seems to make up her mind.</p><p>In a single fluid motion, she strips off the top she was wearing to reveal a black lacy bralette underneath and puts on the lavender shirt, leaving it unbuttoned but typing it in a knot above her midriff. Thank god it wasn’t a no-bra day. You already seem to be having a heart attack from Jade stripping impromptu in your bedroom regardless. You’re not certain if you’d have survived if it was a no-bra day.</p><p>“How’s this?” she asks, giving you a twirl and a grin.</p><p>The shirt was oversized when you bought it as a child, so it just about fits her, tastefully snug around the chest and arms. The particular shade of lavender suits her, complementing her skin tone without washing her out. She makes it work; she should wear purple more often. You don’t think any of these thoughts, of course. The most apt comparison of your brain currently is a broken computer crashing, desperately trying to reboot itself, then crashing again. One of the hottest girls you know is wearing your clothes in your bedroom, having just stripped off her shirt moments prior. What a ridiculous situation. You swallow carefully. She asked you a question; use your words, Lalonde.</p><p>“Captivating. Resplendent. Pulchritudinous,” you say, internally wincing as you use more and more pretentious adjectives. “You look good,” you add uselessly.</p><p>She’s looking at you curiously, head slightly cocked, lips pursed and expression thoughtful. You don’t want her looking at you right now, not when you’re stupid and horny and you’re still trying to restart your brain so you can hide behind your classic razor-sharp wit. You feel foolish under her gaze. You feel vulnerable. There’s a palpable tension that you both can sense that leaves you slightly floundering. You’re good with pressure normally, you’re thriving and clever and reckless, but the end of the world stuff, the suicide mission stuff, that was all easy. This is personal. This is absolutely terrifying. Nevertheless, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge and you’re not going to start now. You can’t seem to bear to maintain eye contact with her though, so you move your gaze slightly left, to study her thick black hair, sprawling across her shoulders and the shirt. Your shirt. It’s messy and tangled and you wonder whether she’s brushed it recently and how it would feel to run your hands through it. It’s not like you haven’t done that in the past but you think of how different it would feel this time. Implication. She studies you in return.</p><p>June, who, bless her soul, cannot read a room to save her life, misses any nonsense going on between the two of you and pokes her head around the closet door. Thankfully, whatever momentary tension there is between you and Jade immediately dissipates and you go back to your knitting with a vicious focus. June gives Jade a once-over, then hums approvingly.</p><p>“You should wear purple more often,” she says offhandedly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The thing is, most of the time you hang out with Jade it’s not weird and choking and full of tension. She’s normally sunny and feelgood and easy to spend time with. She makes it easy. You’ll relax in her garden, reading while she works, or hang out with the trolls together, or chat and laugh about inane things as you watch <em>Squiddles!</em>, which is why these moments are all the more jarring. It’s emotional whiplash, it’s the sensation of an ice cube being pressed against the back of your neck on a hot summer’s day, goose bump-inducing and catching you off-guard, no matter how much you try to prepare for it, but definitely not unwelcome. This is all not helped by the fact that you’ve had on-again, off-again feelings for her since you’ve met her. It also doesn’t help that you’ve been worryingly emotionally constipated for as long as you’ve known her. Your feelings get tangled in doubt and self-analysis and self-analysis of that self-analysis; it’s exhausting having to deal with them, honestly. It’s easier to simply feel her lean into you as you give a scathing and biting critique of the particular episode you’re watching together. Episode over, scornful review over, and you decide to head to the kitchen to make some popcorn for the two of you.</p><p>“I’m thinking of cutting my hair,” she says to you lightly as you return, popcorn bowl in hand. Her pretty green eyes are watching you carefully. You have a feeling that your reply matters somehow.</p><p>“Nice.” You pause, feeling like you should say more. “How short?”</p><p>She holds up your very own hair clippers, and gives a sheepish grin.</p><p>“Buzzcut?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“How did you even get hold of my clippers?” you ask, as both of you stand around her bathroom sink.</p><p>“You left it here. After you shaved your head ages ago, remember?”</p><p>“Hm.” You hadn’t remembered.</p><p>“I meant to return it but always forgot,” she shrugs.</p><p>Her nonchalant tone is betrayed by her slight tremors as she holds her hair in a shaky grasp. She wanted to first cut her hair down to a more reasonable length before give a free rein to you to use the aforementioned clippers. The glint of scissors distracts her for a moment, her gaze flickering between the blades and her own face in the mirror. You watch her inhale, press her lips together and cut. Snip. It’s fairly anticlimactic and she realises this. You almost suggest playing the Mulan soundtrack in the background to up the dramatic tension but the sheer sincerity in her eyes as she catches your reflection’s eye stops you. This is important to her. She doesn’t need you ruining this moment. She smiles lopsidedly at you in the mirror, you nod encouragingly in return. Snip. The more she cuts, the more confident she grows. Snip. Snip. Her hands have lost their tremor, her eyes have lost the uncertainty.</p><p>You’re not sure how much time passes but soon, you’re watching the last few locks of hair flutter gently onto the floor, adding to the small puddle of black. She turns around to face you.</p><p>“Help me with the last bit?”</p><p>“Of course,” you reply, reaching for the clippers sat next to you, flicking the switch on and feeling it rumble to life in your grip. Gently leaning her head near the sink, you begin your work, keeping your focus on the task at hand. You don’t think about the little hitch in her breath when the clippers first touch her head. You don’t think about the way she shivers whenever you skirt the clippers along the top of her neck. You don’t think about the tension in her shoulder blades, where your hand is gently resting. There’s a task that needs to be done, so you keep your mind focused, your hands steady, and you definitely don’t think about any of those things.</p><p>You quickly get bored of the silence though, and choose your next words carefully. “It’s a shame. I thought you liked your hair long.”</p><p>Her eyes flicker open and she looks contemplatively at the black hair filling the sink.</p><p>“I did,” she replies. “But it was time for a change. I’ve had it long since I was a kid and I’ve been wondering for a while what short hair would be like.”</p><p>“What if you don’t like it?” you say, before you can stop yourself. “What if you regret it?”</p><p>“I don’t think I will. I’ve been mulling it over for a while. Whatever you think of me, this isn’t a rash decision, y’know,” she says, in a gentle chiding tone.</p><p>“Even if I change my mind,” she adds, “I’m sure it’ll just grow back to how it was before with enough time.”</p><p>Your reply is immediate. “The upkeep is surprisingly frustrating. You’d think it’d be one of the most low-maintenance haircuts possible, but you have to re-trim it astonishingly often.”</p><p>“That doesn’t sound too hard. Even then, I’m happy to put in the work.”</p><p>You don’t reply and for a while the only sound is the reliable buzz of the clippers working their way across her head.</p><p>“How long,” you start hesitantly, “have you wanted to cut your hair short?”</p><p>She purses her lips in thought. “It’s always been in the back of my mind, I think. When I saw you shave your head though, I definitely made up my mind.” She glances over at you but you keep your focus on the back of her head.</p><p>“Done,” you say, leaning back and setting the clippers down, admiring your handiwork. She instinctively runs a hand through her hair and there’s undisguised delight as she twists and turns to get a good look in the mirror.</p><p>She looks like a fuzzy bowling ball. She looks wonderful.</p><p>Jade grabs your hand and beams at you. Her face is close to yours as she thanks you, eyes bright and twinkling. You clean up the mess in the bathroom together before calling it a day and collecting your things. You purposely leave the clippers behind. There’s another set at home and besides, if she’s serious about maintaining a buzzcut long-term, she’ll need them.</p><p>Before you turn to leave to head home, you touch her arm lightly.</p><p>“Short hair suits you. You look lovely.”</p><p>She smiles softly before leaning in, agonisingly slow, to gently press her lips against yours. You instinctively breathe her in and press back before she pulls away, eyes gentle.</p><p>“Thank you, Rose.”</p><p>You want to pull her back towards you, you want to go back inside with her and kiss her again and again, you want to tell her she’s the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. Instead, what you do is acknowledge her amused smile with a shaky nod and shakier grin, turn away from the door, and think of her the whole walk home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Since then, you’ve been more careless with your touches, with the way you study her. You’re still occasionally skittish and still often cynical but it gets easier and easier to indulge yourself, to allow yourself to rest your hand on her arm, to give her more of your old clothes to wear, to kiss her knuckles when she’s reading beside you. Neither of you have used the term girlfriend yet but there’s all the time in the world and you’re both happy taking it slow. You’re perfectly content like this, hanging out and kissing and shaving each other’s heads whenever either of you need a trim.</p><p>You’re resting under a tree, in dappled sunlight on a picnic blanket, propped up by your elbows. She lays on her back beside you, eyes closed. You study her features for the thousandth time, still somehow fascinating despite its deep familiarity: her unplucked eyebrows, the roundness of her nose, her subtle overbite. She’s kept her promise; her hair remains cropped.</p><p> </p><p>“I love that haircut on you.” you say simply, when she opens her eyes to meet your gaze.</p><p>The implication is not lost on her.</p><p>“I love that haircut on you too,” she replies, smiling.</p>
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